War Is Deadly for the Killed and the Killer

I have never liked Blue Jays.  They only squawk and travel in gangs.  There are a gang of them who daily torment our bluebirds trying to eat their eggs and young.  I sat on our porch every morning having my quiet time and using a BB gun to scare the Jays off.  I am reading in Judges of the “test” of war God gave Israel to ensure they would be obedient.  War is deadly.   This morning I killed a Blue Jay.  An improbable shot, 45 feet into leaves which hid the Jay.  It dropped like a stone out of the tree.  I take no satisfaction in killing any living thing.  War is deadly.  I do not know why these thoughts are held in my heart nor why I  feel compelled to publicly confess them.  War is deadly for both the killed and the killer.  

The dead.

     

Father's Day a Few Days Later

I have had the great blessing of knowing great men in my life.  As I grow older it becomes apparent I am always in need of great men.  Sadly my most trusted men have passed on.  My father-in-law, Robert (Bob) Claggett Brown Jr. was a great man to me.  He fought in WW II, Pacific Theater, battled scared, ending up in Hiroshima.  Our relationship grew and over time developed into a close bond.  He was stoic and could be severe, but he became a great encourager, teacher, and mentor to me.  Eventually, I became for him, someone who would sit and listen. Over the years he opened up about his early life, his war experience, and the things that made him who he was.   His early life was spent with his father wrestling out a living sharecropping in upper west Tennessee. His war experiences were shared slowly, a bit here and there.  They were proud memories, often violent and deadly, heroic by any measure.  In the last years of his life, we visited almost every Sunday where I would sit in his living room and listen to him talk.  Toward the end, we mostly sat in silence, he stooped over in his chair holding a pillow with his head in his hands.  He had lived his last days recounting to me his past and now suffered the final story, the pain of ancientness.  He died at 94.  Every Father's Day I spend thinking of him and my dad, another great man I knew.  It would take volumes to recount his greatness.  My Father's Days are always filled with great memories of great fathers this father was blessed enough to know.   

The picture I keep beside my chair.  Bob, in the corner and my
dad as he was dying of cancer with Peaches, the dog Betty and I gave 
him to help in his transition from here to heaven. 

        

Be Your Gift of Dominion-er

A morning is a gift you must give yourself.  You must rise and go into it.  You must allow it to provide you with sight, to anoint your eyes to see.  Seeing morning become morning is to begin seeing The Divine.  Morning sets your day for expectation, it delights your senses, opening them to the living earth, to its utter gifted majesty, to your humanity's tranquility as the dominion-er.  Living thus, your spirit becomes incense, a sweet aroma drifting up over the morning to How Great Thou Art.  This is how the day, your day, becomes glory after glory.   

       

 

What Happened to My America?

What happened to my America.  The easy one, laid back and gentle, stirring in equal measures pride, hope, and a sense of optimism.  Was it youth, a young body who could go all day with eyes better to see?  No, it was America.  I was proud of America and proud to be known as an American.  Right was right, good, good, and sunshine lit the way.  I made model Lunar landers, played sports, wore a cowboy hat, and listened to The Guess Who and Bread.  I went off the reservation but never thought I was doing right.  Remember right was right and I knew right, my mom and dad always ensured that.  I am often shamed by America today, of our government, our media, our churches, and our entertainment. It reminds me of the old Hank Williams song, Drifting to Far From the Shore.  I sit at Fair Haven and watch my America drifting away.   

     

 

Love Comes Raining

It is raining.  My lover tripped yesterday and almost fell.  She wept beside me.  Her, so alive, grows old, and it hurts her deeply.  She does not know in her deep heart how old elegantly becomes her.  Age ravishes her but ripens her ravishingly.  Oh, the joys of growing old with someone whom old polishes.  God’s goodness flood over me.  It is raining again.  

  

    

Having Someone to Thank for 12 Bowls or a Red Mushroom

I am reading in Numbers 7-10 and a phrase about bowls, flour, lambs, and oxen is repeated 12 times, thus the name Numbers.  To make it not so dull I try to consider the repetition and order of all the sacrifices and how humans love repetition and order better known as rhythm and pattern.  One of the greatest gifts God ever gave us was rhythm and pattern.  We love the rhythm of waves, music, ticking clocks, and the pattern of Scottish wool, stripes on zebras, fractals, and rectangles on a Hersey Bar.  It is called order and this we also love.  We love the order of seconds, minutes, hours, and days, of roundabouts and our turn at the front of the line.  Of the many attributes of God Three one of the most loved in Their order, Their devotion to rhythm and pattern.

When I allow order to rule my life I form habits.  If the order is for good things like reading Your Word or kissing my lover the last thing I do every night, my life becomes manageable and predictable.  Order is comforting.  It is what makes for great surprises.  Without order there would be no possibility of surprise or awe and precious wonder.  A disruption of pattern or rhythm creates an opportunity for focused attention, as when a kiss leads to lovemaking or the pause leading to the climax in Handel’s Messiah.  

Who could have thought up rhythm and pattern out of a vacuum of formlessness and void?  Oh, what a wonderful gift to see the order in 12 bowls of gold filled with fine flour or the beautiful dots surrounding my lover’s irises.  G. K. Chesterton said, “The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank.” 

Found this patterned mushroom in my yard.

         

A Circle Praises

I have long known and taught that few things are more perfect, more comforting, and visually aesthetic than the circle.  We all love the circle, from childhood games of Ring Around the Roses to wedding bands, ripples in a pond, orbits, cakes, equators, and hula hoops.  It is one of the simplest ways for an artist to attract attention or evoke a positive response.  It is also reason for praise for no human left to their own devices could have thought up a circle; it is of Divine origin.  A circle is a great act of kindness.  This past week I had the pleasure of working with my lover and our two sons to create a sculpture in a circle. It is called “Rock’s of Ages”. It is the second of five we are making for the Trail of Truth which celebrates the contributions African Americans have made to the success of Jackson/Madison County. Nothing can say it better than a circle.